paper. He took in the red-inked headline:
KIDNAPER-RAPIST ESCAPES
• • •
Beneath that, a large type head announced: BLALOCK ESCAPES WITH HELP OF CONFEDERATES. THREE-STATE MANHUNT UNDER WAY. OREGON UNDERSHERIFF KILLED.
• • •
And beside the headline was a full face cut of the fat man now sitting in the rear seat of Mallory’s station wagon.
Chapter VIII
M ALLORY could feel the silence. He didn’t need to look at Graef to know that he was being watched. He didn’t need to look at the patrolman to know that he was expected to comment.
“Something, all right,” he said. His voice sounded thick to his ears. He glanced at the patrolman and shook his head.
The patrolman leaned farther over Mallory and stared down at the photograph. “Bastards,” he said. “Anybody’d who’d help a guy like that Blalock is a real bastard in my book.”
Mallory wished the patrolman would go away. He could feel himself sweating. He could smell the sour, fear odor of that sweat. He was afraid the patrolman would smell it too.
The waitress came up to the booth. “Coffee right away?”
“Fine,” Graef said.
The patrolman straightened up. Mallory let his breath run softly out of his chest. It had been tight, hurting. The waitress put down two glasses of water and laid typewritten menus in front of Mallory and Graef.
The patrolman said, “I didn’t get your name.”
“Graef. I’m a business acquaintance of Mallory’s. He’s been telling me about the fishing up here. It’s not my game, but he talked me into giving the country a try.” He spoke easily, naturally.
The patrolman said, “It’s a great place for a vacation. No excitement, maybe, but the best hunting and fishing in the country.”
Mallory gulped some water to ease the dryness in his mouth and throat. “The best,” he agreed.
The patrolman nodded and started out. “I’m late on the highway now,” he said. “See you around.”
“You bet,” Mallory said.
“Glad to have met you,” Graef called.
The patrolman’s boots made heavy sounds as he went toward the door. Mallory suddenly realized that he had one leg drawn up under the seat of the booth, in a position where he could swing it out at Graef. The muscles of the leg were knotted from strain. He let it relax, wondering what he actually thought he could do with a swing of his leg against a gun.
“That’s right, Mallory,” Graef said, “Relax easy.”
Mallory sat silently as the waitress set their coffee in front of them. He didn’t want anything to eat, not even coffee.
Graef sounded cheerful as he ordered toast and coffee for both of them, and ham-and-egg sandwiches and coffee to go.
The waitress left, and Graef said, “We can have a real meal after we set up camp.”
Mallory shrugged and began to read the newspaper story carefully. A subhead in the story caught his eye. The words were cold and brutal in their simplicity: “Deputy Sheriff Murdered.”
Mallory looked up to find Graef watching him. Graef’s eyes were cold and muddy. He said softly, “You see, another killing won’t make any difference now. Do you understand that, Mallory?”
Mallory said, “Yes.” He looked down at the paper again.
Mallory remembered the kidnaping of Mary Thompson, now. She was the daughter of a prominent Oregon lumber executive. Marvin Blalock’s plan to kidnap her and collect a hundred thousand dollars in ransom was so wild that few had ever doubted he would be ruled insane.
Blalock had kidnaped the girl from her college campus by simply driving up behind the library at night and waiting until she appeared. He forced her into his car. He then drove to a long, straight stretch of beach on a deserted section of the Oregon coast. He was a war pilot who had psychoed out but he was a superb flier. He had a stolen plane at the beach. The tracks he left in the sand puzzled the authorities. They indicated he had the plane equipped with skis.
The ransom note arrived in the next morning’s
KIDNAPER-RAPIST ESCAPES
• • •
Beneath that, a large type head announced: BLALOCK ESCAPES WITH HELP OF CONFEDERATES. THREE-STATE MANHUNT UNDER WAY. OREGON UNDERSHERIFF KILLED.
• • •
And beside the headline was a full face cut of the fat man now sitting in the rear seat of Mallory’s station wagon.
Chapter VIII
M ALLORY could feel the silence. He didn’t need to look at Graef to know that he was being watched. He didn’t need to look at the patrolman to know that he was expected to comment.
“Something, all right,” he said. His voice sounded thick to his ears. He glanced at the patrolman and shook his head.
The patrolman leaned farther over Mallory and stared down at the photograph. “Bastards,” he said. “Anybody’d who’d help a guy like that Blalock is a real bastard in my book.”
Mallory wished the patrolman would go away. He could feel himself sweating. He could smell the sour, fear odor of that sweat. He was afraid the patrolman would smell it too.
The waitress came up to the booth. “Coffee right away?”
“Fine,” Graef said.
The patrolman straightened up. Mallory let his breath run softly out of his chest. It had been tight, hurting. The waitress put down two glasses of water and laid typewritten menus in front of Mallory and Graef.
The patrolman said, “I didn’t get your name.”
“Graef. I’m a business acquaintance of Mallory’s. He’s been telling me about the fishing up here. It’s not my game, but he talked me into giving the country a try.” He spoke easily, naturally.
The patrolman said, “It’s a great place for a vacation. No excitement, maybe, but the best hunting and fishing in the country.”
Mallory gulped some water to ease the dryness in his mouth and throat. “The best,” he agreed.
The patrolman nodded and started out. “I’m late on the highway now,” he said. “See you around.”
“You bet,” Mallory said.
“Glad to have met you,” Graef called.
The patrolman’s boots made heavy sounds as he went toward the door. Mallory suddenly realized that he had one leg drawn up under the seat of the booth, in a position where he could swing it out at Graef. The muscles of the leg were knotted from strain. He let it relax, wondering what he actually thought he could do with a swing of his leg against a gun.
“That’s right, Mallory,” Graef said, “Relax easy.”
Mallory sat silently as the waitress set their coffee in front of them. He didn’t want anything to eat, not even coffee.
Graef sounded cheerful as he ordered toast and coffee for both of them, and ham-and-egg sandwiches and coffee to go.
The waitress left, and Graef said, “We can have a real meal after we set up camp.”
Mallory shrugged and began to read the newspaper story carefully. A subhead in the story caught his eye. The words were cold and brutal in their simplicity: “Deputy Sheriff Murdered.”
Mallory looked up to find Graef watching him. Graef’s eyes were cold and muddy. He said softly, “You see, another killing won’t make any difference now. Do you understand that, Mallory?”
Mallory said, “Yes.” He looked down at the paper again.
Mallory remembered the kidnaping of Mary Thompson, now. She was the daughter of a prominent Oregon lumber executive. Marvin Blalock’s plan to kidnap her and collect a hundred thousand dollars in ransom was so wild that few had ever doubted he would be ruled insane.
Blalock had kidnaped the girl from her college campus by simply driving up behind the library at night and waiting until she appeared. He forced her into his car. He then drove to a long, straight stretch of beach on a deserted section of the Oregon coast. He was a war pilot who had psychoed out but he was a superb flier. He had a stolen plane at the beach. The tracks he left in the sand puzzled the authorities. They indicated he had the plane equipped with skis.
The ransom note arrived in the next morning’s
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